


Every Era Has Its Hero

by NumberA



Category: Claymore
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4738232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberA/pseuds/NumberA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two hundred years after the fall of the Organisation, a group of tipsy foreign exchange students discuss Miria’s legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Era Has Its Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank Dany Le Fou for sanity checking both my French and my representation of broken English; the real Srini for the name ‘Bharata’; Robert for assistance with German vocab; Edwin for a thoroughly enjoyable discussion of the composition of public monuments and three kingdoms era swords; and Damon, Sophie, and my very excellent mother for proofreading.

     They spill from the restaurant, warm with alcohol, drunk on the rush of being here at last. She doesn’t really know the others - they only met at the foreign exchange student welcome a few hours ago - but they are as new to this country as she is and that is all the common ground they need.  
     It’s close to midnight but the streets are, if possible, more crowded than they were earlier. Everywhere she looks there are cars, buses, flocks of girls enjoying a ladies’ night out, garbage bins, beggars, office workers letting loose on a Friday, litter, benches, taxis, a busker playing the fiddle. Colours from signs she’s too tipsy to read swirl around her: neon, lit plastic, high pressure sodium, headlights, LEDs, and darkness. Srini says something that makes Wade laugh but she doesn’t hear it over the rush of traffic and the roar of music and conversation rising from a nearby bar. A Tsubasa XT7300-S sportvagen glides by, taillight gleaming. Noriko has her phone out to record a monorail as it trundles overhead.  
     They don’t really know where they’re going until they get there, but when they do it it’s obvious.  
     “Oh!” Cries Noriko, “Miria-taichou!” The Nippanese girl takes off, rushing across a sweep of pavement towards a statue at the far end. Suddenly it clicks: this is Humansgeistplatz and _that_ is ‘The Warrior’. It’s smaller than she expected, and looks a bit unreal without a picture framing it, but there’s a presence there that nothing she’s seen has captured, and it’s hard to look away. They come to a slightly unsteady stop in front of it and stand there, staring up into the cast metal face of a legend.  
     Before them is a life-size portrait statue of Miria of Frankhold, clad in armour, sword in hand, looking towards the headquarters of the Conclave of Nations. She can’t quite remember who made it and why but she does know that it’s bronze electroplated with chromium to give it a silvery sheen. The Captain’s stance, blade lowered, body turned slightly away, is poised and alert but not openly hostile. Her expression is watchful but unreadable; taking everything in while giving nothing away.  
     “There is manga, comic, in Nipan about Miria-taichou and Clare and Teresa,” says Noriko after a moment. “It name ‘Kureimoa’. I really like.” The night hasn’t been kind to her Ruztak either, but it doesn’t matter.  
     “Oh! Claymore,” exclaims Srini in his lilting Bharati accent, “I really love that manga! Such a beautiful story, very uplifting.”  
     “You know?” Noriko clasps her hands together, beaming.  
     “I do! Ever since reading it I’ve always been wanting to go to Frankhold to visit Pieta, Staff, Rabona, all such places! Tabby, have you ever been to any of them?”  
     “Hunh?” It takes her a moment to parse what he said. Languages were never her strong point and it’s been a long week. “Oui! Yeah! I’m from Rabona! I’ve been to her grave. The guards there have the claymores and dress like soldates!”  
     “Sugoi…” murmurs Noriko, Srini wants to know if she’s been to Pieta or Staff.  
     “Pieta? Non. I went to Staff for a… how to say… school trip.” She remembers a hot day in a dry, rocky valley swarming with young people. There’d been an unusual number of girls there that day, an irony not lost on her friend Irene.  
     “It was… ahh… full of teenage girls,” she declares. The others chuckle.  
     “I have been to former Organisation headquarters,” proffers Wade, “it is grim place, yes, but what the Captain accomplished there was extraordinary. So was what she did afterwards: bringing scatter of broken villages together into a modern, industrialised nation.” He shakes his head. “Remarkable.”  
     “Yes!” She grins. History and its grudges have never interested her but there’s something about Wade’s trim black waistcoat and neat sideburns which makes her want to ruffle his feathers a little. “You fucking Albans tried to kill us all and take our money eh? But la Capitaine was too smart for you!”  
     “Oi! It was Alban who told her the truth of things and lied to protect Frankhold after the Rebellion! He helped them!” He looks so cute when he’s mad that she can’t resist poking at him a little more.  
     “Whatever! You tried to kill us! We kicked your ass but you still owe me a drink! Pour nos filles!” She throws her fist in the air as she shouts the Frankish rallying cry. Wade looks appealingly towards Srini and Noriko but they’re enjoying this real life battle between a Frankholder and an Alban way too much to be any use to him.  
     “Fine,” he sighs, shoulders slumping, “though I would like to remind to you Captain Miria herself said no further reparations were wanted after the Treaty of Hawsemouth in 2061.”  
     “Pour nos filles!” she repeats, ruffling his hair as the four of them take a few selfies with The Warrior. Then they head off, leaving her to her vigil.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on language: I’m too lazy to worldbuild properly so I’ve used French as a proxy for the dominant language of the claymore continent. ‘Pour nos filles’ means ‘for our girls’ and is a sort of general appeal to the patriotic spirit of the people of what was once the Claymore continent. It gets yelled a lot at sporting events.


End file.
